Crowning Glory: Beyond the Roots

Dear Reader, when I was a little girl, I had long, relaxed hair—or at least, that’s what I’ve been told. Thanks to CPTSD and chronic migraines, my memory is notoriously unreliable. But when I moved in with my “adoptive family”, the decision was made that maintaining my hair wasn’t practical. My grandma-who’s-not-my-grandma was devastated. To this day, she still laments how beautiful my hair was, as if it were some relic lost to time.

At school, prepubescent me—with a bald head—was often mistaken for a boy. That had a lasting effect on me. As I grew older, I tried to reclaim that narrative by convincing myself I wasn’t just unfeminine but rather an androgynous gothic tomboy. My beauty was so closely tied to my hair, and yet my young, impressionable self had no say in the matter. If you’ve read my previous posts, you know that my looks have been a lifelong struggle, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise that my hair played a significant role in this internal conflict.

When I moved to New York and dared to cut my hair short, it was like painting a target on my back. I became the wounded gazelle among ferocious wildcats. As one of the few Black girls in my class—and distinctly African, as if I had left behind pet elephants and a cozy hut for the American dream, or so they imagined—I was now the ‘African Black girl with short hair.’”

I have to laugh.

Kids are cruel, and I was no stranger to name-calling or being labeled a lesbian, which didn’t bother me much. I’ve accepted that my self-expression often leads to people questioning my sexuality—an uninspired, narrow-minded take that’s truly none of my business. But child-me, who came from a world where women going bald didn’t raise eyebrows, couldn’t understand why my short hair was suddenly a big deal. In my naive mind, I thought not having a flat chest would make it obvious that I wasn’t a boy.

I hadn’t yet grasped the sinister grip of white beauty standards or how deeply people equate hair with beauty. While I was being bullied with racist comments—white classmates calling my short natural hair a “rat’s nest” or referring to me as a gorilla—my English teacher, one of my favorite women ever, took notice. She called me to her class during break time just to tell me that I was beautiful. Those moments with her were some of the first times I ever recall being called beautiful.

As a kid who had never known what racism or microaggressions were, those encounters were jarring, mostly because I didn’t grasp what was happening. I’m one of those people who never thought of themselves as “Black” until I was thrust into environments where race was the epicenter of society. Back home, I was just a Motswana or African. I experienced microaggressions from my white peers in South Africa as well, but none of that behavior was something I clocked until a few years ago. In New York however, my Blackness was suddenly a spotlight. My assertive, no-nonsense Black English teacher from Maryland, with her chic shoulder-length silk press, knew exactly what was up. She did what she could to support me in a way that felt both sincere and essential.

Around the age of 16, I noticed the natural hair movement. A friend at the time had an Afro, and I was mesmerized. I asked her how I could get mine like that, and soon enough, I did the Big Chop. My decision was solidified after my last retouch at a salon left me with severe chemical burns all over my scalp. I didn’t need any more convincing to go natural.

But I was unprepared for the level of care my hair would need. I didn’t own a bonnet or any natural hair products—it was just vibes. I often rocked the shrinkage because you couldn’t pay me to twist my hair every night. The non-Black people in my life frequently commented on how my hair looked “messy” and how they preferred it in a low bun. It looked “better… cleaner” than my shrinkage or pineapple hairstyle. I tried to be more dedicated to my hair, like other girls were, until I discovered the concept of wash day.

That’s when the lazy natural in me was born. 

Let’s take a beat—pause. 

What do you mean you’re spending an entire day washing your hair? What do you mean? 

Absolutely NOT!

And let’s not forget the anti-heat warriors. One thing about me? I crank up the heat on the blow dryer. My underrated flex is that I’ve never dealt with heat damage, so I didn’t get what all the fuss was about. I’ve used heat protectant maybe once in my life, and that was during my first year of university, thanks to friends who took hair care seriously. I love how great natural hair products smell, but I’m not doing all that. 

Not now, not ever.

I love my hair—I love having an Afro. For about a week or two. Then it’s time for some braids.

Part of detaching my hair from beauty was accepting that just because I don’t follow a 12-step hair care routine with expensive products doesn’t mean I don’t love my hair. And another part of detaching my hair from beauty was not having hair, period. 

Another thing about me? I will shave my head. Younger me would be appalled after the treatment I faced, but hear me out—I have a confession.

Before I turned 18, some months after moving to Zimbabwe, I was in a relationship I wasn’t happy in—not because of anything the other person did, but simply because I wasn’t happy. He loved my hair and made sure I knew it. So what did I do? I shaved it all off. It really had nothing to do with him; I was spiraling mentally, and shaving my hair became my coping mechanism. Every time you’ve seen me bald, just know I was going through something. Now, I have a much healthier relationship with my hair. I go bald because I’ve realized that as a young Black woman, I don’t have to equate my hair with my looks. I know I look good bald. I look good with whatever style I have on my head. I never used to believe that, but I do now.

As I’ve embraced my natural hair journey, I’ve noticed that many Black women are reverting to relaxing their hair. For the natural hair warriors, I understand why this might seem problematic in the Black community. Some argue that relaxing your hair is anti-Black, that it shows you don’t love yourself, or that it’s a sign of internalized racism. But riddle me this—if, as a community, we can reclaim derogatory words like ‘nigga,’ if women can reclaim terms like ‘bitch’ and ‘cunt,’ then why can’t Black women reclaim something that makes their lives a little easier? Different situations, same principle.

If your argument is that saying relaxed hair makes life easier perpetuates racist narratives about Black hair, argue with your ancestors. It’s a fact that our hair is the most delicate—it requires attention, nurturing, patience, like growing a plant. So if someone doesn’t want to do all that, why should they? Why be pressed about what someone else is doing with their own head? Whether it’s shaving, installs, or relaxing it, hair is a form of self-expression. It’s a canvas. How you paint yours doesn’t have to be how I paint mine.

And let’s be clear—choosing to relax your hair, or opting for a particular style, isn’t an act of self-hate or a desperate attempt to fit into colonizer ideals. It’s autonomy. It’s about agency over your own body and how you choose to present yourself to the world. If we are reclaiming our power, then that power must include the freedom to choose, without judgment, how we wear our hair. Doing what you want with your own hair isn’t a betrayal of your Blackness—it’s an assertion of it. It’s about rejecting the idea that there’s only one way to be authentically Black, and instead, embracing the multifaceted, complex, and beautiful reality of who we are.

In the end, it’s all about choice. The freedom to wear our hair however we want, without judgment or scrutiny. Because the real power lies in owning that choice—whether you’re rocking a bald head, an Afro, braids, or relaxed hair. The beauty of Black hair isn’t in its conformity to any standard, but in its endless possibilities.

All the love, 

N.